by Karen Brooks
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Map
PART ONE Prologue
CHAPTER ONE Tallow
CHAPTER TWO The conversation in the kitchen
CHAPTER THREE Revelations
CHAPTER FOUR Errands go awry
CHAPTER FIVE What happened in the workshop
CHAPTER SIX A visitor in the night
CHAPTER SEVEN Secrets revealed
CHAPTER EIGHT On the Mariniquian Seas
CHAPTER NINE Family Bonds
CHAPTER TEN The apprentice learns a new art
CHAPTER ELEVEN The candlemaker's apprentice
CHAPTER TWELVE What Tallow heard
CHAPTER THIRTEEN The alchemist's story
CHAPTER FOURTEEN A sudden departure
CHAPTER FIFTEEN The Pledge Stone of Casa di Maggiore
CHAPTER SIXTEEN Zaralina
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN The story of Pillar's father
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN The boy and the dog
PART TWO CHAPTER NINETEEN Fuoco e acqua
CHAPTER TWENTY Of gondolas and canals
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE Events on the Circolo Canal
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO In the Great Hall of Albion
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE Tallow's interference
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR Baroque Scarpoli reports
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE The Council of Elders
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX Outcomes and encounters
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN A change of weather
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT Inside the chandler's shop
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE Tallow's promise
CHAPTER THIRTY Francesca delivers some news
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE Morto Assiderato
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO Return to the Chandlers Quartiere
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE Baroque's letter
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR The morning after
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE Pillar's choice
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX The charade unravels
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN The spy vanishes
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT On the Ponticello di Mille Pietre
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE The significance of failure
CHAPTER FORTY Claudio's dreams
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE Tallow's deliverance
Glossary
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Tallow
THE CURSE OF THE BOND RIDERS BOOK I
KAREN BROOKS
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted by any person or entity, including internet search engines or retailers, in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including printing, photocopying (except under the statutory exceptions provisions of the Australian Copyright Act 1968), recording, scanning or by any information storage and retrieval system without the prior written permission of Random House Australia. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author's and publisher's rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
Curse of the Bond Riders 1: Tallow
ePub ISBN 9781864714418
Kindle ISBN 9781864716818
A Woolshed Press book
Published by Random House Australia Pty Ltd
Level 3, 100 Pacific Highway, North Sydney NSW 2060
www.randomhouse.com.au
First published by Woolshed Press in 2009
Copyright © Beyond the Rainbow Creative Productions Pty Ltd 2009
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
Woolshed Press is a trademark of Random House Australia Pty Ltd.
All rights reserved.
www.woolshedpress.com.au
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted by any person or entity, including internet search engines or retailers, in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying (except under the statutory exceptions provisions of the Australian Copyright Act 1968), recording, scanning or by any information storage and retrieval system without the prior written permission of Random House Australia.
Addresses for companies within the Random House Group can be found at www.randomhouse.com.au/offices.
National Library of Australia
Cataloguing-in-Publication Entry
Author: Brooks, Karen (Karen Ruth)
Title: Tallow / Karen Brooks
ISBN: 978 1 74166 435 5 (pbk.)
Series: Brooks, Karen (Karen Ruth). Curse of the bond riders; 1
Dewey Number: A823.4
Cover design by Mathematics, www.xy-1.com
Cover photography by Marco Martins
Map illustration by Karen Brooks
Map design by Mathematics
Internal design by Midland Typesetters, Australia
Typeset in 11.5/16 pt Palatino by Midland Typesetters, Australia
Printed and bound by Griffin Press, South Australia
Random House Australia uses papers that are natural, renewable and recyclable products and made from wood grown in sustainable forests. The logging and manufacturing processes are expected to conform to the environmental regulations of the country of origin.
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
For Edna Rosenthal (1937-2006), Eva Meyer (1913-2007),
Moira Adams and Patricia Brooks – mothers, friends
and beloved.
PART ONE
'Father,' asked one of his children, 'what are the stars?'
'The stars are stars, and little things that shine as
thou seest.'
'Then they are like candles, perhaps?'
'Make thy account that they are candles exactly.'
'Of wax or tallow?' pursues the boy.
'What! Tallow-candles in heaven? No, certainly – wax, wax!'
William Dean Howells
Venetian Life
PROLOGUE
'I KNOW YOU'RE OUT THERE.'
The Bond Rider peered into the rolling mist, his arm wrapped protectively around the warm bundle strapped to his chest. 'I can feel you.'
Urging his horse forward, he resisted the impulse to look at the tiny, tranquil face just below his own. As if aware of the significance of the journey, the baby had neither cried nor moved since they set out – how long had it been? He tried to calculate, but it was no use. Not in this place, where time had no meaning. Instead, he recalled the three who had set out with him, Bonded to protect the child at any cost. The empty feeling in his chest marked their passage as accurately as any device. Three lives lost to this venture already; far too many crossings dared. He knew that he would not survive another.
The huge wall of vapour manifested before him, rippling gently as he came to a halt at a respectful distance. He eyed it warily. He could just discern the silhouettes of the winter mountains and forests beyond the wall. Before him, so near and yet immeasurably distant, lay his former home.
He still yearned for his old life, even after all these years. But if he were to breach the wall and enter his beloved world of Vista Mare just once more, then time would snatch away what it had so generously bestowed: his unnaturally long existence.
The horse snorted and stamped, breathing heavily, ears flattening to his head. He didn't like venturing so close to the edges of the Limen.
'It's all right, boy,' muttered the Bond Rider, slapping his mount's neck. 'Our route doesn't take us that way today.' He glanced over his shoulder. 'Not if I can help it.'
There was no sign of pursuit. But he knew better than to trust his eyes when the Morte Whisperers were hunting.
Ignoring his mount's nerves, the rider once again considered the ghostly pall that marked the perimeter of the uncharted lands known only as the Limen – the space between. Rising from
the ground, the strange, shifting wall was deceptively elusive. It was hard to believe something so fragile disrupted the temporal reality of the world, separating countries and families alike. The rider knew it all too well, though; Bond Riders respected the power that bordered and measured their subsistence, even while they continued to flout it.
Wiping the sweat that trickled down the side of his face, he weighed his options. It wasn't safe here, on the edge. He should retreat deeper into the Limen. Take the child to its own people.
Yet if the child rightfully belonged to anyone, surely he was deserving? After all, he had devoted his life to the secret enterprise that only this child, at the right place and time, could bring to fruition.
Ah, had he really believed it would come to this? The future of his kind – of the world – held in the palms of an infant. He almost laughed out loud at the absurdity of it all.
When he had made his Bond, over three hundred mortal years ago, it had seemed a courageous and bold adventure – an antidote to the tragedy his life had become. Back then, this child had been nothing but a myth, a story told to bolster hope in a dwindling faith and a dying breed. But somehow, after years of half-hearted searching, the Bond Rider had stumbled on that marsh-bound village and found the very flesh of legends. And, as he had been instructed, he had taken the child.
He wanted to look at it again – to behold the little face and those magnificent eyes. Only now did he understand the danger of succumbing to that temptation. As soon as he'd lost his pursuers, he'd opened the baby's swaddling and looked upon it, in spite of all the warnings. With slow deliberation, the infant had returned his gaze. All at once he'd been overpowered by emotions so strong they'd almost broken him. Gasping, he'd tried to turn away, but the infant's stare held him transfixed. Within the depths of those quicksilver eyes, he'd seen his own soul laid bare – his weaknesses and secret desires reflected in them.
A low murmuring from the Limen brought him back to the present. He didn't have time for this! If he stayed here, his pursuers would find him ... and the baby. And if it wasn't the Morte Whisperers, it would be something else. Bond Riders were not the only life forms to dwell within the Limen.
He glanced at the small being bound to his chest – his Bond, his burden. Tiny, vulnerable and unaware, the child slumbered.
Locked in a stasis of indecision, it took a moment for him to register that the murmuring he heard was not drifting across from the forests on the other side.
In one fell gust, the haunting wails of the Morte Whisperers finally reached him.
It would only be a matter of time before they were captured. His mount reared and would not be coaxed back to stillness; he understood the sounds and the cruelty they promised.
Turning to flee, the Bond Rider saw the shape of a horse and cart through the rolling miasma of the wall. Careering along the old road that ran beside the Limen, the vehicle swayed dangerously close to the trees before swinging back towards the wall. He could taste the lone driver's panic. If the man did not regain control of his vehicle, no gravestone would be the arbiter of his memory. None but the misguided or foolish dared to travel this treacherous route.
A triumphant howl sounded behind the Bond Rider and his heart flipped in response. The Morte Whisperers had finally caught the child's scent. In moments they would be upon them and not only would his eternal soul be condemned, but the hope of an entire race would be lost.
Horror and a sense of utter inevitability brought a chilling clarity to his thoughts. He knew his orders.
Tightening his hold on the reins, he spurred his horse away from the border for several paces before wheeling mid-stride, facing the wall once more. Before the horse could defy him, the Bond Rider kicked his beast hard. The horse leapt forwards but, at the last minute, the rider turned him to gallop parallel to the Limen, inches from the edge. Hungry tendrils of mist reached out, coaxing them, daring them to pass through.
Obscured by the cloudy border, the rider raced alongside the hapless cart. He knew that the Morte Whisperers would not hesitate to rupture the boundary; unlike him, their future was not contingent on what the Limen both gave and stole. But they would not expect him to act so rashly, he who valued life and its gifts so highly.
Perhaps, with his sacrifice, his people would have reason to hope again.
The Bond Rider bent low in the saddle and began to chant the words that would break time asunder. The fabric of the wall ahead altered and a rift appeared – subtle at first, but quickly growing larger, firmer. For a moment, like an opaque window being opened, his former world became distinct, perfect. He inhaled sharply. The bitter smell of mortality filled his lungs.
Then, with a shout of defiance, horse and rider hurtled through.
In those fleeting moments, as his horse bounded through the Limen and into the temporal world, the Bond Rider's head filled with images from a long-forgotten past. His life wound backwards, a melange of fleeting pictures and sensations: the coolness of raindrops on parched cheeks; the warmth of sunlight on half-closed eyelids; the radiance of a fire thawing blue-tipped fingers.
Then his horse's hooves hit the road and time entered his body and, with great hungry gulps, consumed it.
The last image the Bond Rider held as his horse crashed into the cart and crumpled beneath him was the child flying through the air and a vague human shape reaching out. The Rider cried out the two words that would secure its future before death finally claimed him.
HE WAS BEING WATCHED. He knew it.
Every hair on his body stood at right angles. His heart hammered and he was having trouble breathing.
'Don't hurry now. Take your time,' Pillar muttered. All he wanted to do was jump back into the cart and ride away from this cursed place. For the time being, that was impossible. The collision had almost tipped the cart over. Righting itself in one fierce bounce, the full weight of the cart had landed on one side, loosening a wheel.
Bending down, he quickly checked that his makeshift lever would support the cart and examined the axle; it was split but should hold. He slowly spun the wheel and lifted it off. There was comfort in that – the cold, wet sensation of the crisp snow, the solid feel of the wood. For a moment, this familiar task chased away the spectres in his mind: the spirits that lurked in the forest and, worse, those that he knew loitered in the Limen. He refused to look, afraid of what – or who – his imagination might conjure. Instead he concentrated on finishing his repairs. Thank goodness these hire carts always had a few tools. Fixing the wheel back into place, he noted with dismay that two of the spokes were bent. He prayed that the wheel would bear the weight of the cart as he slid the lever out. It did.
He picked up the mallet and chisel and then searched for the axe. It had skittered across the slippery surface and now lay in the rider's ashen remains. Pillar blanched and dropped the tools, recalling the rider's last moments – his chilling words, the way the air seemed to tear at his flesh, ripping it from his bones before reducing it to dust. And the death scream of the horse. He shuddered. Tonight would haunt him always.
Pillar knew it was not his fault the man and his horse were dead. No, not dead. He now knew that there were things worse than death. He muttered a futile prayer for the man's soul, lost long ago.
A lone cry broke the night, turning Pillar's blood to ice. His horse whinnied and stamped the icy ground.
'Only wolves, girl,' he murmured, patting the horse reassuringly. 'Only wolves.'
But no wolf he'd ever heard made a sound like that.
Refusing to acknowledge the shifting barrier on the other side of the road, he wound the reins around his fingers and casually looked back through the trees. No fast movements, keep it easy, he told himself. Don't raise suspicion. Don't force an attack.
Setting a sedate pace, he travelled for some time in numb distraction. It was only when he reached the pass and began the descent that would end by the green waters of the lagoon that he finally allowed himself to go over the strange events of
the night. The rider bursting through the Limen, the impact that had almost flung him from the cart and, most incredibly of all, the child who had miraculously landed in his arms.
Pillar rested one hand on the small form, bound so tightly in a peculiar cloth, neither crying nor moving. All it did was stare. From the moment he'd pushed the dark hair from its forehead its eyes had never left him. Amid the terror and confusion, he'd felt calmness descend and composure take over; simple Pillar the candlemaker had known what to do. He'd known to steady his horse and brace the cart. He'd known to ignore the smoking residue and to swallow the panic that had risen in his throat. And he'd known to work swiftly, with a studied disregard for the sinuous wall and what lay on the other side.
